


Here's To the Crabgrass

by DeansBonnieSammysClyde



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Drabble, Heavy Angst, Post-Episode: s05e22 Swan Song, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-16 10:11:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21269342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeansBonnieSammysClyde/pseuds/DeansBonnieSammysClyde
Summary: You don't have to be in water to be drowning.





	Here's To the Crabgrass

**Author's Note:**

> As a self-professed lover of fluff and only fluff (with a good dose of Hurt/Comfort sprinkled in), of course the very first work of my own is angst-ridden. My brain is masochistic, what can I say?
> 
> For bde_bigdeanenergy on Instagram, who provided the picture as the muse for this drabble, and for Sara, who always encourages me.

Wetness pools beneath his fingers.

He’s never minded the sea. Could handle himself in any body of water, could perform rescue maneuvers with one hand tied behind his back, though he never took to swimming with quite as much enthusiasm as –

He didn’t mind being wet. Became second nature, their – his now, he’s the only one left – line of work forcing him into an up-close and personal acquaintance with just about every element Mother Nature had in her arsenal.

This though – the dampness collecting beneath the pads of his fingers, feeling each bead of moisture as it oozes between clenched digits – this seeping wetness soaking his hand while the rest of him was intact and fine and _dry_ – there’s only one kind of liquid – one person’s – that could be responsible for drenching his hand like this and he’s never suffered lightly when it’s spilled.

His ears register an incessant buzzing – anodyne and trivial, innocuous, not a threat, but – _newest model, dual turbo engine_ and _steal if you ask me, this off-season has been a disaster_ and _Jimmy Cohen you stop doing that to your sister or you’re going straight home!_ \- and _Christ_ but he needs them to shut up, needs to focus and remember protocols that have been ingrained into him since he was too young. His eyes are closed as his mind recites. _Hold pressure directly on the wound, elevate above the heart, use pressure points._ But the dampness at his hand increases. _Stop the bleeding, gotta stop the bleeding, gotta save S-_

“Hey, man!” He’s slapped on the back and he wrenches his eyes open.

“What’d I tell ya! Pat is famous for his chili dogs.”

Someone else is crowding into his space.

“Man, you’re still on your first brewskie? Pssh, rookie numbers, my guy.”

He blinks once and looks down. In his clenched hand is a full bottle of beer, cap still on, condensation weeping rivulets down to his wrist as it sweats in the too-bright sun. He squints up again, into earnest, vaguely uncertain grins.

Dean Winchester is adrift in suburbia, in the middle of neighbors as they discuss mundane 401ks and the best method for grilling burgers, trying to let himself be surrounded by normal and never lonelier.


End file.
